


stars, hide your fires

by broniichan



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 2000 year slow burn, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Good Omens, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Alternating, Sexual Content, Violence, oikawa sucks for most of this and i think that's very sexy of him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25905274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broniichan/pseuds/broniichan
Summary: “Would itkillyou to say one nice thing about me? Just one?”“Yeah.” Iwaizumi smiles, crookedly. “I’d instantly combust.”Oikawa is an angel who’s bad at being good. Iwaizumi is a demon who’s bad at being bad. Chance keeps pitting them against each other.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 16
Kudos: 186





	stars, hide your fires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keishn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keishn/gifts).



> sorry this took me 9000 years, i hope you like it! i've been wanting to write iwaoi for years so thanks for giving me an excuse to
> 
> NOTE: while i tagged this as a good omens au, you do not have to have read/seen good omens to understand this! i’m not following the plot or the established canon of the world at all. consider it more of a good omens inspired au. also i don't know anything about the bible, don't @ me
> 
> originally meant to have this done a while ago and capitalize on the popularity of the good omens show last year but as you can see that did not pan out as planned lmao

_Stars, hide your fires;_

_Let not light see my black and deep desires._

—William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_

**Tokyo, Present**

Iwaizumi walks down the apartment hallway, the non-human presence growing stronger, until he stops at a door—number 5011—where the presence is strongest. He rings the doorbell. 

There’s no answer, so he rings it again. Footsteps and the click of a door, but it comes from Iwaizumi’s side, door number 5013, and out steps a middle aged woman with graying hair and a purple purse. 

She smiles and nods her head at Iwaizumi, who awkwardly returns the smile. She turns to lock her apartment door. With her jangling keys filling the air as she struggles with the lock, Iwaizumi presses the doorbell again for something to do. _Come on, answer already._

The woman finally locks the door and pockets her keys. “Pardon me,” she says to Iwaizumi. “Are you a friend of…?” She gestures at door 5011. 

“Uh. I guess.” 

“Would you mind telling him to keep it quiet in there late at night? He gets up to such a racket in the middle of the night, nearly every night. It’s like he never sleeps.” She gives him a tight smile. “I didn’t want to report him to the office or anything, but…” 

“Uh. Yeah. I’ll let him know.” 

“Thank you. Have a good day, young man!” 

She disappears around the hallway corner, and Iwaizumi is faced with a shut door. He presses the doorbell once more for good measure. _What the hell,_ he thinks, checking the doorknob. It’s unlocked.

He steps in, instantly hit with a murky perfume scent. Covering his nose, he squints around the place. Bottles litter every surface, organized in some unfathomable pattern, and what look like sheets of damp white cloth rest in rows on the coffee table. The smell of smoke from deeper within—Iwaizumi inches to the kitchen, careful not to disrupt anything. 

The smoke comes from something boiling on the stove, evidently forgotten. Iwaizumi flicks it off before the fire alarm notices, grimacing at the burnt plastic smell. “Jeez.” 

Footsteps from down the hall. Iwaizumi looks up as Oikawa steps into view. 

“ _Fuck—_ What the—” Iwaizumi jabs a finger at Oikawa’s face. “Why do you look like that?” 

“It’s been years and _this_ is how you greet your dear old acquaintance?” Oikawa puts his hands on his hips. A headband holds his bangs away from his face, making room for a nightmarish white mask covering everything but his eyes and mouth. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t have expected you to have suddenly developed manners.” 

“Are you trying to scare me off? Because it’s working.” 

“It’s called a facemask,” Oikawa sniffs. “Very popular among humans these days. Supposed to even your skin or remove wrinkles or whatever else humans worry about.” 

“And why are you wearing it? Does it even have an effect on you?” 

“Well, no, you can’t improve perfection. I know _you_ don’t care about your appearance—”

“Oi—” 

“—but many humans do, and with so many different brands popping up, I thought I’d test them all out to find the definitive best one.” Oikawa plucks up a legal pad full of scribbles from the table. “I have six points I’m evaluating them on: smell, texture, mask shape, taste—” 

“Taste?”

“Sometimes the liquid drips onto my mouth and I’d rather not taste something completely awful.” Oikawa taps the next point with the tip of a pen. “Post-removal residue, and lastly, je ne sais quoi.” 

“‘Je ne sais quoi.’” 

“Yes, sometimes a facemask just has a special something. An oomph, if you will.” 

Iwaizumi rubs his forehead. “This is the most useful project to better humanity?”

“How can you say that? These poor mortals have such high aspirations, futile though they may be. They deserve to know what facemask is the best for them. Look at this.” Oikawa grabs a wrapper and shoves it under Iwaizumi’s nose. “‘For dewy, glowing skin.’ Aw. They try so hard to achieve the impossible.”

“You’re such an ass.” 

“I don’t see _you_ doing anything to benefit humanity.” Oikawa writes notes in the pad. “This one definitely gets a two on ‘mask shape,’” he says, gesturing to where he folded over the cloth to make it fit his face. “Whose face is that wide?” 

“Have you considered that maybe you have an abnormally narrow face?” 

“My face is perfectly proportioned, so no, I haven’t.” 

Iwaizumi shuts his mouth, scanning over the apartment again. Pushed to the fringes are trinkets and gadgets from long ago projects and experiments, most rusting, broken, dusty, useless. There’s a single orchid in a pot that’s definitely at least a hundred years old, which is more a testament to the flower’s fortitude than Oikawa’s quality of care. Orchids are remarkably sturdy flowers in contrast to their delicate, showy exteriors, evolved to withstand much more tempestuous environments than even Oikawa’s apartment. 

Yet an oddity sticks out: near the window stands a 17th century telescope, bronze gleaming and polished despite its age and uselessness, perched right where the window opens to the world. 

Iwaizumi turns his focus back to Oikawa. “Why didn’t you answer the door? I rang the doorbell twenty times.” 

“Oh, please. I dismantled the doorbell _years_ ago. I don’t need anything distracting me from my work. You should’ve just knocked.”

A buzzer. 

“Fifteen minutes up,” says Oikawa, pressing a button on his cellphone to stop the alarm. He peels away the facemask, bunching it up and rubbing it over his face and neck before folding it up and placing it in line with the other used masks. He makes a ta-da gesture at Iwaizumi. “So? How do I look?”

“Exceptionally ordinary.” 

“Now, now, you know it’s wrong to lie,” Oikawa says, plucking up a handheld mirror and turning his head to inspect himself. “Well, I already had dewy, glowing skin, but despite the ridiculous size, this one was fairly good.” He sets down the mirror and scrawls more notes in his legal pad. 

“So what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Oikawa asks, without lifting his head. “I didn’t know you were in Tokyo.” 

“I just happened to sense your presence in the area, so I thought I’d come see what you’re up to.” Iwaizumi looks over the piles of facemasks. “Didn’t expect it to be this stupid, though. Oh, I passed your neighbor on the way in. She says to keep it down at night.” 

Oikawa clicks the pen shut and places it and the legal pad precariously atop the chaotic table. “Sakurai-san has a lot of nerve complaining about noise when she keeps a cat. This building is strictly no pets and I could’ve reported her months ago for that. But I didn’t, because that’s the kind of guy I am.” 

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, while you’re here! I have so many facemasks to try out and so little time,” Oikawa says, voice lofty, “and it would be _so_ much easier if I had someone to help me…An assistant, perhaps…”

“No. No way.” 

“Someone who isn’t as perfect as me to compare with…” Oikawa fakes a melodramatic sigh. “Too bad I can’t make humans do anything for me. If only there were someone who isn’t a human around…” 

“I’m not going to—”

“Why, Iwaizumi! You’re still here! I know no facemask is enough to fix your… _you_ -ness, but would you be willing to help your dear old friend with a little project?”

“I’m not supposed to do ‘good’ things,” Iwaizumi mumbles, lamely. 

“Just a minute ago you questioned whether this experiment was actually helping humanity. You could easily sabotage my data, you know.” 

“I said, I’m not going—” 

Iwaizumi ends up leaving Oikawa’s apartment laden with three bags stuffed with facemasks. 

“Bye-bye!” Oikawa calls, waving from the door, another facemask already on his face. “Make sure to send me updates!” 

Iwaizumi grunts in reply, cursing himself. 

In the evening at his ratty flat, Iwaizumi tries his first facemask, staring at his horrifying reflection in the cracked mirror. Were he not a demon, he might feel more discomfort at the horrible look. He snaps a selfie with the outdated cellphone Oikawa made him buy years ago and sends it to Oikawa as proof.

A reply within minutes. 

**Maybe you should leave it on, you look better when your face is covered up ;)**

  
  


**do you want me to take notes or not**

**also bullying test subjects isn’t ethical**

  
  


**You’re an assistant, not a test subject**

**I’m allowed to criticize you**

Iwaizumi considers hurling the facemask into the trash, but with a sigh, he pockets the phone. 

The fifteen minute alarm goes off. Iwaizumi peels off the mask, face sticky. He places himself in Oikawa’s mind, imagining how Oikawa would think. He pulls out a piece of paper and begins writing. 

  
  


**Egypt, 31 BC**

The first time they meet, it is upon the Nile River. 

Iwaizumi rides upon a boat with the humans who summoned him, gazing at the greenery surrounding the water and the brown of the arid earth beyond. He was hired to assist them in making Egypt fall to Rome in the upcoming battle between the Octavian and the joined forces of Cleopatra and Mark Antony. Iwaizumi has little personal stake in political squabbles and doesn’t know enough to gauge whether he’s doing bad or good, but he has no choice until the humans release him from their bonds. Or they die before he fulfills his duty to them. 

Raft gently bobbing along water glowing in late afternoon sun, Iwaizumi senses a presence nearby. It’s not a human presence, and while it feels similar to a demonic presence, there’s something off about it. The presence comes closer, and behind them is a different boat, quickly advancing. Iwaizumi scans the bodies stood upon the deck. The presence emanates from a tall human shaped figure. 

Iwaizumi plans to ignore the oddity at first, but the second boat speeds up enough to catch up to Iwaizumi’s. An anchor flies across the water between the two boats and slams into Iwaizumi’s boat, cracking the hull and jolting their balance. 

Shouts and confusion from the humans around him. Iwaizumi steadies himself, approaching the scene of the damage. Splintered wood sticks up, water leaking into the boat. It’s sinking. 

Framed by the sun hanging low in the sky, the other boat continues along their side. The tall figure reels in the anchor now that it has done its damage, and Iwaizumi gets a good look at them: a lean, masculine figure with wavy brown hair and sharp eyes to match. They’re dressed in inconspicuous sailor clothes, but their non-human energy conflicts with their clothes. 

The figure notices Iwaizumi’s gaze and waves. “Hello there!” they call across the water over the noise of the humans scrambling to fix the broken hull, clearly audible to Iwaizumi’s enhanced ears. Lithely, and with assuredness unbefitting a human, they jump the gap between the two boats to stand before Iwaizumi, hand preemptively resting on the sword sheathed in the scabbard at their hip. “I’m looking for the demon Iwaizumi. I’m assuming that is you.” 

“How do you know my name?”

“Oi, demon!” yells one of the men who summoned Iwaizumi. “Don’t just stand there and chat!”

The figure smirks and ignores the man. “Oh, I’ve gathered intel on a variety of demons. You’re not special.” They bow, pressing a hand to their chest. “I, of course, am the angel Oikawa, he who protects the humans from the wicked demons.” 

“Who?” 

A flash of irritation on Oikawa’s face, quickly smoothed over. “I don’t expect a low lifeform such as _you_ to have a deep understanding of the world and its players.” He lifts his chin. “Anyway, I’ve been hired to stop you, so. No hard feelings!”

“Demon!” again shouts the man. “What did we summon you for?! Kill him!” 

Iwaizumi sighs. He transforms into his other form—a black dog the size of a bear, a thin coat of flickering flames surrounding his fur. He growls at Oikawa, who steps back, arrogant exterior cracking to show genuine fear. Oikawa pulls out a sword from his scabbard. He aims the blade at Iwaizumi. 

“Sorry. No hard feelings,” Iwaizumi says, and lunges. 

With the massiveness of his dog form, he easily overpowers the human-sized Oikawa and sinks his knife-sharp teeth in Oikawa’s neck. But he tastes no blood, and despite the gaping wounds in his neck, Oikawa seems entirely unfazed. The wounds close up before Iwaizumi’s eyes, and with a cold smile, Oikawa plunges his blade into Iwaizumi’s ribs. 

The stab hurts, but Iwaizumi is no human, merely stepping back from the blade. The wound closes up like Oikawa’s did. 

Sat on the ground with his blade still held before him, Oikawa frowns. “It seems we’re at an impasse here,” he notes. 

Before Iwaizumi can say anything, the humans on Iwaizumi’s boat shriek, some jumping off the sinking boat into the water. Iwaizumi realizes in horror that he accidentally set fire to the boat by transforming, orange flame dancing across the sinking wood. 

No longer pinned, Oikawa scampers off the sinking, burning boat. With him aboard the other boat, it surges ahead, leaving Iwaizumi’s boat to sink. 

Oikawa looks back at the sinking boat and shouts, “Enjoy your swim with the crocodiles!”

Oikawa’s boat now a mirage on the water, Iwaizumi curses and transforms back into his human form as he jumps into the water. The boat sinks more rapidly, chunks breaking off with the fire, and smoke rises into the air. Across the river, Oikawa’s boat grows smaller and smaller. His presence vanishes.

  
  


**Scotland, 530 AD**

Thick mist stretches out across rolling hills, early morning birds twittering. Up ahead is a dense, dark forest. Oikawa’s path leads straight into it. 

Inhaling the cold air, he steps forward, his footsteps alone on the grass. The trees close in, branches blocking the dusky sky from view. Branches crack underneath Oikawa’s weight. 

As he delves deeper and deeper into the wood, birds and outside sounds vanish, and there is nothing but the hum of life from the trees and the demonic energy ahead. Oikawa’s skin crawls, but he pushes onward. These woods are supposedly deserted, but the locals of the neighboring town claim a terrifying being lives within, with those who have entered later found dead. Oikawa’s here to find out what sort of demon awaits him.

The trees begin to split into a distinct path, the gray sky visible once more. 

A fortress appears out of the mist, dilapidated with ivy crawling over its weathered stone. Oikawa slows. No demon in immediate sight, but the large, amorphous energy is still present, its source difficult for Oikawa to pinpoint. 

Another presence, a smaller one, from behind. Oikawa whips around, reaching for his sword. 

An armored form comes into view. It stops dead at the sight of Oikawa. 

“Fuck,” the person grumbles. “Not you again.” 

Oikawa raises his sword higher. “Excuse me?” 

The person lifts their helmet up, revealing a familiar scowl underneath. Not a person, then. “I thought I could sense something up, but I hoped it wasn’t you.” 

“Still bitter about the boat, demon?” Oikawa jeers. “That’s old news.”

The demon Iwaizumi says, “No, I’m bitter about how you framed me as a Christian. I had to escape Rome because of you, you know.”

“You don’t know that was me.”

“No one else has a vendetta against me, so nice try.”

“Well.” Oikawa readjusts his grip on his sword. “What are you doing here?” 

“Stopping you from killing my fellow demon.” Iwaizumi nods at the fortress. 

Oikawa’s fingers tighten around the sword handle. 

Before either of them can move, a cold air surges out, frost crawling up Oikawa’s clothes. A fluid, water-like shape rises up, protectively hovering in front of the fortress. A demon, a different one.

“A friend of yours?” Oikawa shoots at Iwaizumi. 

Iwaizumi grimaces. “Not all demons know each other.” 

The ice demon exhales, breath like a gust of wind. Oikawa studies it, mind running through different modes of attack. His eyes dart up to the fortress itself, where a face—a human, a pale young woman with jet black hair—watches the proceedings. 

Oikawa raises his sword. “Fear not, fair maiden!” he calls out. “The legendary Oikawa is here to rescue you from your imprisonment!” 

Flatly, the young woman responds, “Okay.”

Oikawa narrows his eyes on the ice demon. He marches toward it. 

Arms grab around his torso, yanking him back. “No you don’t,” Iwaizumi says.

“Get off of me, you—” Oikawa squirms, pushing on Iwaizumi’s hands. 

Hissing swears at each other, they fumble, Iwaizumi’s armor uselessly clacking against Oikawa’s sword. Oikawa drops his weight and sinks to his knees, breaking Iwaizumi’s grip on him, and he jumps to his feet before Iwaizumi can grab him again. 

The other demon howls. Shards of ice fly toward Iwaizumi, who yelps and jumps aside. 

“Hey—What the hell—” Another round of shards, Iwaizumi barely dodging. “I’m here to help you—Aim at him, aim at him!” He points at Oikawa.

The ice demon doesn’t even acknowledge Oikawa’s presence, continuing to advance on Iwaizumi. With the ice demon occupied, Oikawa checks the fortress—the young woman has vanished. He quickly checks behind, where the ice demon and Iwaizumi tussle, and makes a break for the fortress. 

Busy fending off the ice demon, Iwaizumi notices Oikawa running off. “Hey—Wait—!” 

Ignoring Iwaizumi, Oikawa enters the dark, abandoned fortress. He stops, his footsteps echoing on cold stone. He chooses the closest staircase, running about the hallways and searching for the young woman, the crashes and grunts of Iwaizumi and the ice demon’s fight in the distance. The energy of the two demons shift; the warm energy grows hotter and larger, fire glowing from the fortress windows. _Iwaizumi’s transformed, then._

A small form down the hallway. 

“Young maiden!” Oikawa calls, raising his sword. “Hurry! We can make it out while the demons are fighting.” 

A bone-chilling howl from outside. 

The young woman dashes to the nearest window, eyes wide. “No!” she cries. 

Oikawa follows her. Down below, a fiery hound has its jaws clamped on the ice demon. Oikawa senses the ice demon’s energy fading, dimming until it is gone. The hound spits it out. Flames snuff out as its body shrinks to Iwaizumi’s human form. 

_Damn it,_ Oikawa thinks, then chides himself for swearing. He processes the young woman’s words from the moment before and repeats, “‘No’?”

She sprints for the staircase. Oikawa tails her back to the first floor and outside. The young woman stops at the mangled body of the ice demon, looking sick and horrified, and kneels down beside it.

Panting, Iwaizumi wipes his mouth and shoots Oikawa a look of confusion. 

“You killed it,” the young woman says, voice shaking. “It shouldn’t—You shouldn’t have—” 

“Fire melts ice,” Oikawa says. “Ah, correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t seem…How shall I say? Overjoyed? Thankful? I did just try to save your life, you know.” 

“ _I_ killed it,” Iwaizumi jumps in. “Don’t steal the credit, you—”

“The demon was my protector,” the young woman says. “I summoned it myself. I’m supposed to take over my homeland’s throne and I don’t want it, so I locked myself here and pretended it was holding me hostage.” 

Oikawa’s mouth goes dry. “H-Huh?” 

Iwaizumi bursts into laughter. “Oh, wow. How do you feel about that, angel? Your precious fair maiden dabbles in demon summoning.” 

“Shut up!” 

“Please!” the young woman begs, clasping her hands. “I can’t go back! Don’t make me!” 

“Your demon killed people,” Oikawa says, icily. “I cannot allow you to summon another.” 

“But I don’t want to go back! I can’t!”

“What if it’s a demon that doesn’t kill?” Iwaizumi asks Oikawa. 

“Those exist?” 

“Yes, you prick, they exist. I know a couple that send off energy that scare people away or make them lose their trail.” 

“She’s still responsible for the deaths of—” 

“Hold on,” Iwaizumi says. He sinks into the earth, disappearing from view. 

Oikawa yells at the now empty patch of dirt, “I said _no!_ ” 

Within seconds, the earth opens up, and Iwaizumi returns, this time with a tall spectral figure whose demonic energy curdles Oikawa’s insides and raises the hair on his arms. 

Iwaizumi casually claps a hand on the spectral figure’s shoulder. “This guy owes me a favor, so he can protect you for as long as you live. His energy will prevent anyone from wanting to come near at all.” 

The young woman studies the new demon, look of horror fading. “Okay.”

“Not okay,” Oikawa interjects. “This doesn’t—” 

“Isn’t it a compromise?” Iwaizumi says. “It won’t hurt anyone anymore. She can receive her judgment when she dies.” 

Oikawa mashes his teeth together. 

Smiling smugly, Iwaizumi turns to the young woman. “He’s all yours, then. I’m assuming you know how to form a pact, then?” 

She nods. “I want to say goodbye, first.” She looks down at the slowly disintegrating ice demon. 

“This is utterly ridiculous,” Oikawa says.

Neither Iwaizumi nor the young woman listens to him. The young woman kneels beside the ice demon again, pressing a hand to its skin. Iwaizumi kneels on the other side, expression somber. They sit in silence as the ice demon slowly crumbles into the earth.

With no one paying attention to him, Oikawa lets out a scoff of disgust to disrupt the quiet and sheaths his sword. He stalks off, stepping under the cover of the dark trees from before. 

_It’s just a demon,_ he thinks. 

  
  


**Tokyo, Present**

As it is every Friday night, it’s a busy day for bars and clubs. Oikawa walks on the side walk, a recyclable tote full of new brands of facemasks to try out on his shoulder. He senses the presence of a demon up the street, so he continues down the sidewalk carefully, eyes studying the seemingly human faces coming toward him. 

The presence is at its strongest in a dingy bar with big windows facing out onto the street. Oikawa peers in, realizing with a jolt it’s Iwaizumi sat at a table with two humans. He’s about to walk away when Iwaizumi glances to the window and taps on the glass as a greeting. Oikawa raises a hand. Iwaizumi waves for him to come in, the two humans beside him now looking at Oikawa as well. Oikawa dithers at the door, but he enters the bar anyway. 

Smoke hangs heavily in the air and Oikawa’s ears full of boisterous laughter and talk from packed tables. He weaves through to find Iwaizumi’s table. 

“Thought I could sense you,” Iwaizumi says, setting down a glass. His skin is a little ruddy with drunkenness.

Oikawa pulls up a chair to plop down beside Iwaizumi and one of the humans, giving the humans a look over. 

“Ah, yeah, this is Hanamaki and Matsukawa,” Iwaizumi says, pointing first to the human with short pinkish hair and second to the human with dark hair and distinguished eyebrows. “This is Oikawa.” 

“Are they…” Oikawa lowers his voice. “Aware of your _condition?_ ” 

“You mean do they know I’m a demon? Yeah.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, we’re cool with it,” says the one called Hanamaki. “Iwaizumi’s a chill dude.” 

“We’ve even seen his other form,” says the one called Matsukawa. “My dad never let me have a dog growing up, so now I get to have one that’s also my friend.” 

“Yiff,” says Hanamaki. 

The two humans snicker, and Oikawa gets the distinct feeling he’s being left out of the joke. It doesn’t seem to register with Iwaizumi either, who drains the last of his drink without reacting. 

“How did you meet him?” Oikawa asks. 

“Well, long story short,” Hanamaki begins, “we got super drunk and found this demon summoning thing and thought we’d try it out for kicks. Turns out it works, so we accidentally summoned him. We immediately released him but he’s a cool guy so we stayed in contact.”

“Ah.”

“So are you a demon, too?” asks Matsukawa. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Leaning back, Iwaizumi mutters, “Here we go.” 

Matsukawa shrugs. “I mean, I just assumed, since—” 

“I am an _angel,_ thank you very much.” Oikawa cross his legs and then his arms. “In both the literal and figurative sense.” 

“Ah.” 

“Wait, then aren’t you two supposed to be enemies or something?” Hanamaki points between Oikawa and Iwaizumi with the neck of his beer bottle. 

Oikawa and Iwaizumi share a look. 

“I guess I ran into him enough times that he stuck around. Against my better judgement,” Iwaizumi says. 

“He’s my fixer-upper.” Oikawa pats Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Iwaizumi scowls. 

“You have any friends of your own kind? Iwaizumi never mentions demon friends, I know.” 

“Why, of course I do!” Oikawa says, leaving his hand on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “I’m well-equipped to befriend many beings with diverse backgrounds of all kinds.” 

“You’re so full of it.” Iwaizumi stands up. “I’m getting another drink. I need to be way more drunk to deal with you.” 

“Ooh, can you get me something?” Oikawa grabs Iwaizumi’s sleeve. 

“I’ll consider it.” Iwaizumi shakes off Oikawa’s hand and heads for the bar. 

Oikawa looks back at the two humans, unsure what to say.

“So,” says Hanamaki, with a swig of beer, “can you drink like Iwaizumi?” 

“You mean can I sober myself up at will? Yes.” 

“Damn, I’m jealous. At least someone else can keep up with how much that guy can drink. For once.” 

“It’s my pleasure to go against the demon,” Oikawa says, pressing a hand to his chest. 

When Iwaizumi returns, he’s holding another glass of brown liquor and a wineglass of fizzy golden liquid. He sets the wineglass in front of Oikawa. “Seems like the kind of thing you’d like.” 

“What a refined choice!” Oikawa takes an experimental sip. “Not bad, although it doesn’t hold a candle to the 1998 Veuve Clicquot—”

Iwaizumi groans. “Please don’t go back to your wine phase. I think that was the most insufferable you’ve ever been.”

“Oh, I’m sorry your tastebuds aren’t evolved enough to catch the subtle flavor notes.” 

Iwaizumi chugs his entire drink. 

In what feels like no time at all, Oikawa’s drunk and laughing with the two humans over embarrassing stories about Iwaizumi, who in turn retaliates with tales of Oikawa’s lesser moments. Oikawa forgets the bag of facemasks sitting under his seat. 

The night draws on and eventually they pack it in, the two humans succumbing to their physical limitations. Oikawa wills himself sober, as does Iwaizumi (his cheeks no longer flushed red), and together they assist the drunk and incoherent humans into separate taxis home. 

After waving the taxis goodbye, Iwaizumi stands on the curb. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Thanks for joining,” he says, turning his eyes to Oikawa. 

“Yeah,” Oikawa replies. “I had fun.” 

The carefree feeling of earlier is gone now that Oikawa’s completely sober, and with the upcoming departure from Iwaizumi, dread fills Oikawa at the thought of returning to his crowded apartment. 

“Oh,” he says, rifling through his tote, “before I forget. Here are some more facemasks to test out.” 

With a snort, Iwaizumi takes the facemasks. “Right. Well.” He nods. “See you around.” 

“See you.” 

They part, Iwaizumi’s presence infiltrating the humans until it goes beyond Oikawa’s perception. 

Oikawa returns to his apartment around 2:45, turning on fluorescent lights and setting the bag of new facemasks on the floor. To the eye, the apartment is claustrophobic, cramped, yet the objects surrounding him have no presence, as if the room is empty.

  
  


**Heian Japan, 852 AD**

_Jeez,_ Iwaizumi thinks, _this is a pain in the ass._

A many-layered, luxurious red and gold robe bogs him down, long black hair drifting down his back. His face itches from caked on makeup, his eyebrows removed and painted high on his forehead. His mouth is shut, his teeth blackened to conform to the standards of noble women. 

He walks as fast as he can considering the weight of his robes, following the long, chilly hallway to the meeting room. Dim voices speak within. He pushes the door open. 

Ten pairs of eyes turn to him. 

“Lady Arashi,” says Iwaizumi’s object, Fujiwara no Mitsuyuki, turning to face him. A young man, relatively new to politics, not yet hardened with years of experience. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Iwaizumi says, faking surprise. “I didn’t realize you all would be here so late.” 

“No worries,” says Iwaizumi’s (or rather, the fictitious Lady Arashi’s) father, a demon who can shapeshift into an exact replica of any human. 

“I’ll leave you, then.” Iwaizumi goes to turn back for the hall, but his eyes land on one of the councilors. His insides twist. Despite red robes and hair long and pulled up to his head, the angel Oikawa is instantly recognizable. Judging from the slight curl of Oikawa’s lip, Iwaizumi’s own disguise has failed him as well. 

Iwaizumi bows his head without a word, shutting the door behind him. 

Snow drifts outside, slow and silent. Iwaizumi admire it from the warmth of his (Lady Arashi’s) quarters, a fire crackling before him. 

The door bangs open. Iwaizumi jumps to his feet, a sword pointed to his throat. 

“What are you doing here?” Oikawa says, cooly regarding him over the blade. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” 

“I am the new advisor of Fujiwara no Mitsuyuki, as I’ve heard he’s gotten a little too close to a certain Lady Arashi as of late.” Oikawa’s eyes scan Iwaizumi up and down. “You’re trying to get him to ignore his duties. But _you?_ ”

“What about me?”

“Seduce one of the most powerful men?” Oikawa smirks. “Have you seen your face?” 

Iwaizumi holds back a comment. “The makeup hides a lot.” 

“Not enough. The whole face is bad. And then, there’s the issue of your total lack of class.” 

“And yet,” Iwaizumi says, “apparently Fujiwara has gotten a little too close to a certain Lady Arashi as of late.”

“Yes, indeed. Very peculiar.” Oikawa’s mouth pinches. Without lowering the sword, he says, “I will be observing you closely. I will not let him be swayed by you.” 

The sword slides into the scabbard, and with a snap of the door, Iwaizumi is alone again. Snow accumulates on the stone garden outside. 

In the next days and weeks, he must suffer Oikawa’s new presence (alias Kawabe) at Fujiwara no Mitsuyuki’s side, whispering in his ear, eyeing everyone analytically. Oikawa likes to entertain by rambling on and on about his pottery collection, and more than once, Fujiwara sends a look of amusement to Iwaizumi as Oikawa prattles on about lacquer and clay.

One day when one of the other councilors utterly botches a document with page after page of inaccuracy, Iwaizumi says to Fujiwara, with Oikawa in earshot, “He’s an idiot.” 

Oikawa’s mouth drops open. “Lady Arashi!” 

Fujiwara, however, chuckles. “Well, I won’t say it to his face, but you’re not wrong.” 

Iwaizumi smiles, locking eyes with Oikawa. 

A few weeks later. The night is cold. Iwaizumi traipses back to the family home, feet frozen in fresh snow drifts. Firelight gleams from homes and food stalls, smells and voices carrying with the slight wind. 

“Lady Arashi!” 

Iwaizumi turns—Fujiwara no Mitsuyuki dashes to him, alone. 

“Where’s your shadow?” Iwaizumi asks as Fujiwara slows beside him. He resumes walking, and Fujiwara matches his pace. 

Fujiwara laughs. “Kawabe? I sent him on an errand. I felt like having some time alone. I can only stand so much talk about his pottery hobby.”

“He’s annoying.” 

“He means well.” Fujiwara smiles. “But you’re not wrong.” 

They walk in contemplative silence. Iwaizumi’s chest tightens—this is his chance. 

“You know,” Fujiwara begins, “before I met you, I knew your father was very strict and traditional, so I wasn’t expecting you to be so…you.” 

“Me.” 

“You’re not afraid of anything. Not like me.” A ghostly breath escapes Fujiwara’s lips. 

Iwaizumi says nothing for a breath. “Fujiwara-san—” 

“Please, no one’s around. Call me Mitsuyuki.” 

“Mitsuyuki,” Iwaizumi says, slowly, the name tasting sour. 

Iwaizumi follows Fujiwara away from the main road, down dark alleys, follows to a dilapidated, abandoned little shack. He allows Fujiwara to press him into the wall, to press a hand to his cheek. 

“I don’t care about politics,” Fujiwara breathes. He kisses Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi lets him. 

Fujiwara pulls back, Iwaizumi’s thick makeup on his mouth. 

Now.

Iwaizumi hesitates. 

Fujiwara opens his mouth to say something, but Iwaizumi’s teeth are sharpening. He bites before Fujiwara can make a sound. It’s the moment after that’s the worst—Fujiwara stares in shock and horror, ripped out throat gurgling, blood dripping from his gaping mouth. He crumples to the shack floor. 

Iwaizumi wipes the blood from his mouth. His hand comes away red with blood and white with makeup. 

The next few days in Kyoto are chaos: Lady Arashi costume discarded, Iwaizumi observes from afar, watching the news spread of how Fujiwara no Mitsuyuki was found brutally dead in a shack and Lady Arashi of house Minamoto is conspicuously missing. The fraying alliance between Fujiwara and Minamoto breaks, as expected, and the political battle begins. 

Iwaizumi doesn’t need to drink water like a human does. But he stops at a stream, kneeling in cold snow, and gulps down mouthful after mouthful. 

  
  


**The Maya Region, 1101 AD**

Oikawa clambers out of the water system, loose leafs of disorganized notes tucked under his arm. The sun is setting, flaming orange light coming from the west and coloring the remaining warriors picking up their dead in the valley below. Oikawa originally came here to research the water and plumbing systems that are so much cleaner and more efficient than those in Europe, accidentally stepping into warfare in response to the collapse of the central region several centuries earlier. 

In the shallow grass, a small brown dog lies on its side, barely alive, torso pierced by a spear. Oikawa kneels beside it, plucking up a loose spear. 

A demonic presence approaches. “Don’t kill it.” 

Oikawa looks back. The demon Iwaizumi, wearing armor and jaguar skin. 

Oikawa frowns. “I’m putting it out of its misery.” 

“I’m going to heal it.” 

“Oh, you care about a dog’s life but not a human’s? Look, I don’t know what the rules are for you,” Oikawa says, “but you can’t use your powers on something this small.” 

Iwaizumi ignores him and nudges him out of the way. Carefully, he pulls the spear out of the dog’s leg. The dog writhes and whimpers. He gently touches the dog’s snout, and some sort of energy spreads over the dog, the wound sizzling as it closes shut. Returned to full health, the dog hops to its feet and licks Iwaizumi’s hand. 

“Rattlesnake!” A warrior, a young man in his early twenties, comes to them. He crouches and hugs the dog. “You’re okay! How did—” He raises his eyes to Iwaizumi, frowning in confusion. “Who are you?” 

Oikawa figures it’s time he heads out, leaving Iwaizumi to explain himself. With nowhere else to go, he returns to the water canals, listening to the subtle splashes and writing notes as the sun sets. Without taking a single break, he remains there until the sun rises. 

The years pass. The region continues to see tension. Oikawa keeps a low profile, staying to himself as he moves around villages and cities, collecting his notes on the water systems. Generally the people tolerate his presence, as they have bigger issues to handle. Sometimes Oikawa comes across completely deserted cities, beautiful monumental architecture abandoned in drought, disease, and warfare. 

Oikawa runs into Iwaizumi a couple of times through his travels. It seems Iwaizumi has made a friend of that one human, who is now solidly an adult, the healed dog trailing behind them. As far as Oikawa can see, Iwaizumi is doing nothing bad, so Oikawa avoids him and focuses on his research. In return, Iwaizumi does not bother him. 

One day, however, Oikawa leaves the plumbing system, sensing the nearby presence of a demon. He follows the presence until he reaches Iwaizumi and his human friend, both crouched over something. Oikawa comes closer, squinting to see what they’re looking at. 

The human’s shoulders shake, hand pressed to his eyes. The dog lies on the ground, utterly still. 

Iwaizumi looks back at the sound of Oikawa’s footsteps. He isn’t crying like the human, but his expression is inscrutable. He focuses back on the dog and places a hand on the human’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. 

“I can retrieve it from the underworld,” Iwaizumi says to the human. 

Oikawa blurts, “You—What?!”

The human blinks slowly, a tear falling down his cheek. “You…You can do that?” 

“No, he _can’t,_ ” Oikawa insists, stepping closer. “Demon—”

Ignoring Oikawa, Iwaizumi stands. He shuts his eyes, beginning to sink into the riverbank. 

“Iwaizumi!” Oikawa reaches out to snag his arm. 

Darkness, and a heaviness settles on Oikawa from above. He blinks and readjusts, eyes searching the dark cavern above him. Musk and rot sting his nose. An eerie trickling comes from above. 

The underworld.

Iwaizumi yanks his arm away from Oikawa, marching off into the darkness. 

Something yowls in the distance. Shivering, Oikawa calls, “Demon?” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t reply. Oikawa stumbles after him. 

“Hey, demon! You can’t just retrieve something from the underworld!” 

The cavern warms and lightens. They come to the crest of a steep hill. Oikawa jerks to a stop. Below is a river of blood to cross, giving off a sickly, stifling heat. Iwaizumi continues down the hill. 

“Hey!” Oikawa shouts after him. “Are you listening to me? We shouldn’t be here!” 

“You shouldn’t,” Iwaizumi says over his shoulder. “Go back.” 

Oikawa slides on loose rubble, skittering down a few steps. Rocks patter down the hill. Frowning, he stops and regains his balance. Iwaizumi plows ahead. “Demon—” 

At the bottom of the hill, Iwaizumi plunges into the river of blood. The river churns slowly, clearly more viscous than water. Nauseous, Oikawa doesn’t move, rooted to the hill. Eventually, Iwaizumi resurfaces on the opposite bank, his image growing smaller and smaller across the cavern until Oikawa can’t see him or sense his demonic presence anymore. 

Distant shrieks echo. Blood splashes below. 

Time passes—Oikawa isn’t sure how much. Time is strange outside earth, particularly here. Frantically, he scans the dark horizon, waiting for Iwaizumi to return. 

Finally, a spark of energy appears in the distance, familiar and heated. Iwaizumi retraces his path across the river, and when he arrives on the bank before Oikawa, drenched in blood, a small form follows him. 

Oikawa’s insides curl. It’s the dog, but it has no presence, its flesh pale and rotting, maggots crawling out of its eye sockets. 

“I said go back,” Iwaizumi says gruffly, avoiding Oikawa’s eyes. 

Oikawa cannot tear his eyes from the dog. “The dog…” 

Iwaizumi climbs up the rocky hill, the dog limping after him. Oikawa follows, mouth clamped shut. At the crest of the hill, Iwaizumi slows, hands curling into fists. Slowly, he looks over his shoulder. His eyes widen at the sight of the rotting dog.

Oikawa says, “Demon…” 

Iwaizumi looks away, eyes squeezed shut. “Forget it. I don’t want it anymore.” 

“Demon—”

The dog yaps pitifully.

Iwaizumi vanishes. Oikawa follows back to the riverbank. The blood from the underworld river does not follow to earth, Iwaizumi completely dry.

The human jumps up. “Where’s Rattlesnake?” he asks Iwaizumi, eyes hopeful. 

Eyes on the ground, Iwaizumi shakes his head. 

Slowly, hope crumbling in his eyes, the human nods. He sinks down into the grass. 

Oikawa stands there. For all his talk, there is nothing he can say. So he leaves.

Oikawa continues mindlessly on his escapade for the next few years, barely sharing a word with anyone, human or otherwise, his wealth of notes growing quite onerous to lug everywhere. He stays out of the way of politics and battles. 

Carrying his rucksack of notes on his back, Oikawa trudges along a river, sensing a demon presence nearby. Soon a plain comes into view from beyond the trees, dead warriors left scattered in the wake of a recent battle. The remaining living slowly collect the dead, and the demon presence burns right before Oikawa’s eyes. 

His back to Oikawa, Iwaizumi sits in the dirt beside a body. As Oikawa creeps closer, he identifies the body as Iwaizumi’s human friend, now robust and mature in middle age. Iwaizumi cradles the human’s head in trembling hands. 

Knowing Iwaizumi can sense him, Oikawa comes to stand by Iwaizumi’s side. Wordlessly, he places a hand to Iwaizumi’s shoulder. He almost expects Iwaizumi’s skin to burn his hand, to transform him into a pile of ash, to shock him like a lightning bolt, but nothing happens. It feels like regular human skin. He squeezes once. 

Iwaizumi bats Oikawa’s hand away and stands, face hard. His chest rises and falls with irritated, labored breaths. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but shakes his head and turns back to his friend. He slips his arms under the body and picks it up. Oikawa, on an impulse, drops his rucksack and holds his arms out to signal his willingness to help. Iwaizumi doesn’t react, but allows part of his friend’s weight to rest in Oikawa’s hands.

Together they follow the other warriors in organizing the dead. When Iwaizumi’s friend is laid to rest beside the others, the two of them split, both helping the other humans collect the rest of the bodies. Night falls by the time they’re done. Iwaizumi stays with the humans, while Oikawa retreats, feeling like an intruder in the midst of their mourning. 

He picks up his rucksack, sat amidst dirt and dried blood, and continues on his way.

  
  


**Tokyo, Present**

The bar grows emptier and sadder closer to closing time. Iwaizumi spends less time making drinks for loud, giggly groups of friends and spends more time making drinks for solitary salarymen who sit and nurse their drinks in silence. Some pass out on tables, making Iwaizumi’s life more difficult when he has to escort them out. 

After tossing out belligerent stragglers, Iwaizumi cleans up the bar with his coworker. On his way out, he drops off a rag into the laundry and washes his hands in the back room, then picks out his leather jacket and slips it on. He pulls out his phone, which buzzes as he touches it. It’s Oikawa. 

**Hello dear research assistant!! Would you be available to come to my apartment right now and assist me in some research?**

Iwaizumi steps out into the chilly air outside the bar, the sky overhead that shy blue before the sun rises. He types a reply. 

**it’s 5 am**

  
  


**And what are you doing? Sleeping???**

Iwaizumi sighs. He stuffs the phone into his pocket and sets off for the station. 

The train is full of business people beginning their days and hungover partiers ending theirs. Sunlight creeps through skyscrapers by the time Iwaizumi knocks on Oikawa’s door. 

“You came!” Oikawa says excitedly, hair messier than usual, wearing a simple gray t-shirt with sweatpants. 

Iwaizumi grunts, stepping in. The apartment is even messier than the last time he was here, smell of something that should not be cooked wafting from the stove. 

“How long is this gonna take?” Iwaizumi asks, resting his hand on the back of a chair. “I just had a nine hour shift at work.” 

“Oh? What’s your job these days?” 

“I’m a bartender. Not all of us can live off the royalties from some gadget we designed in the eighties.” 

“Hm.” Oikawa smartly does not argue, instead waving a hand to the chaos of the kitchen. “Well, I need some help testing the chemical properties of some of these facial cleansers. I’ve been at it for a few days straight and I could use a hand to make it faster.” 

Oikawa explains everything, words tumbling out fast, demonstrating at the set-up of test tubes. Iwaizumi watches him. Oikawa doesn’t exhibit the physiological signs of exhaustion like a human, but there’s something manic and brittle about his mannerisms and energy. 

When Oikawa finishes explaining, Iwaizumi frowns. “You should get some rest.” 

“You know I don’t need sleep like a human, silly.” 

“Rest and sleep aren’t the same thing.” 

Oikawa ignores him, checking over his legal pad and writing a note. “So are you helping, or what?” 

Iwaizumi peels off his jacket and drapes it on the back of the chair. Oikawa grins. 

They take turns directing and listening, collaborating easily, Oikawa’s apartment growing lighter as the morning ages. Iwaizumi bends over samples of facial cleanser in test tubes, inserting droplets of various chemicals into them and reporting back to Oikawa the appearance of the cleanser afterwords, some changing colors, some bubbling, some not changing at all. 

Finished testing one cleanser, Oikawa squeezes out a different cleanser into a cup with enough to distribute evenly to fresh, empty test tubes. It violently squirts out, splashing the cup and sending goop rebounding back to Oikawa’s face. He shrieks and jumps back.

Iwaizumi laughs. “What, afraid it’s going to burn you?” 

White cleanser in clumps on his hair and cheek, Oikawa glares, making Iwaizumi laugh harder. “You’re not supposed to get this in your eyes,” he grouses. 

“Yeah, if you’re a human.” Iwaizumi picks up a dish towel from the countertop. “Catch.” He tosses it to Oikawa. 

Oikawa catches. Still pouting, he wipes his face clean of the cleanser and hands the towel back to Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi turns to the sink and washes out the towel, cleanser dripping down the drain.

A pause.

Over the hum of the faucet, Oikawa says, “I’m in love with you.” 

Iwaizumi’s stomach drops. He does not turn around, shutting off the faucet and wringing out the towel. Excess water splatters the bottom of the sink. He twists the towel the opposite direction and says, “You’re better off without me.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Oikawa…” Iwaizumi shakes out the last few droplets of water from the towel and lays it out to dry on the counter. He faces Oikawa. “I’m not in the mood to fight.” 

“I’m not fighting with you. I mean it.” 

Iwaizumi takes a moment to think. Oikawa remains silent, letting him. Finally, Iwaizumi says, “You don’t know all the things I’ve done.” 

“You don’t know all the things I’ve done either.” 

“Look, you and I are already pushing it by being friends. We’re not supposed to get along. We’re supposed to be enemies.” 

Oikawa’s expression hardens. “You’re the one who said there were no sides, remember? In the Himalayas.” 

“I…” Iwaizumi swallows. “I was lying to you when I said that. I was just trying to calm you down.” 

Iwaizumi feels sick watching the flash of hurt in Oikawa’s eyes, then the stoicness that follows. Oikawa lifts his chin. “I see.”

Iwaizumi opens his mouth to say something, but Oikawa inhales and pointedly turns away from him, scooping out some of the cleanser into the test tubes. “Thank you for your help, today,” Oikawa says.

“Oikawa—” 

“Go home.” Oikawa’s words are clipped. He picks up a pipette to begin transferring chemicals to the test tubes. “You deserve to rest after a long night at work.” 

Iwaizumi stands and watches him, but when it’s apparent Oikawa will not say anything more, he retreats and retrieves his jacket. Sliding it on, he pauses at the door, casting one last look at Oikawa’s tensed shoulders before stepping out. 

It is warm and bright outside. Humans are out on the streets, going about their daily lives. 

Iwaizumi has work at the bar again this evening. With the whole stretch of day to waste until then, he wanders the streets alone. Not for the first time, he wishes he was capable of sleep. 

  
  


**England, 1488 AD**

With his boss away to Paris for a week, Iwaizumi finally has some time off. He doesn’t know what to do with that time until he passes a tavern from which a non-human presence burns within. 

Iwaizumi steps into the tavern, air full of loud chatter and music from a cluster of musicians in the back corner. He brushes past people. The non-human presence grows stronger.

Someone groans. Iwaizumi steps back as a man hobbles for the door with a beet red face and bleary eyes. A man to the side holds the drunken man’s arm and guides him out. 

“I’m gonna kill that…that bastard,” the drunken man slurs, swaying on his feet. 

“Come on, let it go,” his friend replies. They leave the tavern, door thunking shut. 

In one corner of the tavern, a small crowd of people crowd around a table, where, at no surprise to Iwaizumi, the non-human presence is strongest. 

Oikawa sits at the table, face pale compared to the alcohol induced redness of the men around him. He smiles slyly at the man sitting across from him and cracks his knuckles. “Think you can outdrink me?” he says, picking up a bottle and pouring a drink for his opponent. 

They place their wagers on the table, and the competition begins. Cup to his mouth, Oikawa pauses for a second before his first sip, eyes on Iwaizumi in the crowd. He looks forward and downs the entire cup in one go. 

Iwaizumi watches the competition unfold, knowing exactly how it will pan out. And he’s right; Oikawa sunnily accepts his winnings from the wager with little more than a slight tinge of redness on his cheeks, and the other man lies with his face pressed to the table. Oikawa makes a show of counting the coins and adding them to the clinking bag at his side. 

The losing man staggers away, crashing into a different table and knocking over someone’s drinks. An argument breaks out over the spilled drinks.

Oikawa ignores the chaos and says, “Anyone else want to try?” 

The others mumble, some more interested in watching the fight. 

“No one?” 

Iwaizumi pushes through the crowd and takes the seat opposite Oikawa. “I’ll try.” 

Oikawa’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing and smiles coldly. Oikawa places his bet, and Iwaizumi fishes out the handful of coins on him and slaps them on the table. Oikawa raises an eyebrow at the paltry amount but does not comment on it, pouring out a drink for Iwaizumi and himself. 

Oikawa raises his glass as if toasting to Iwaizumi. “Best of luck to you, stranger,” he says, and drinks. 

Iwaizumi drains his glass. 

They continue like this for a while, the crowd amazed someone can finally keep up with Oikawa. But once the competition drags on and it’s clear neither will budge, the crowd loses interest and drifts off. Every time Iwaizumi feels himself growing a little tipsy, he sobers himself up and continues drinking, Oikawa doing the same, face going from flushed to fair in a second. Iwaizumi isn’t sure why he keeps drinking, but he does, certain he’d be long dead by now if he were a human. 

Clearly a little tipsy from the blotches of pink on his cheeks, Oikawa goes to pour himself another drink, but nothing comes out of the bottle. He places an eye to the rim and squints. “Nothing left,” he says, waggling the bottle. “Ran out.” 

A little tipsy himself, Iwaizumi says, “Guess we’ll have to call it a draw.”

Oikawa drops the bottle to the table and slides Iwaizumi’s coins back to him. Iwaizumi doesn’t pick them up. 

“So, what’s up with you lately?” Iwaizumi asks, leaning back in his chair. “You haven’t been antagonizing me like you used to.” 

Oikawa shrugs. “Well, I haven’t heard much of you getting into trouble lately, either. And anyhow, I figured I best turn my focus to scholarship. That way I can share my knowledge with mortals.”

“Then what the hell are you doing scamming people?” Iwaizumi waves a hand at the coins and empty bottle. “Doesn’t that go against your whole…I don’t know, thing?” 

Oikawa blows a strand of hair out of his face. “I’m not _scamming_ them. They give me their money even when I’ve demonstrated that I will clearly outdrink them. I’m trying to save up money and most human jobs are beneath my skill set, to be frank.”

“Fuck off, you’re such an asshole.”

“Well, it’s _true!_ Anyway, soon I’ll have enough money for a spring-driven clock.” 

“A clock? What do you need a clock so badly for?” 

“I like collecting human inventions. They’re intriguing. It’s endearing that humans come up with all these solutions to fix their pesky problems. I like researching the mechanics. Humans can be pretty smart, sometimes.” 

“Huh.” Iwaizumi scratches his jaw. “You know you could probably just steal a clock from some wealthy person, you know? And not have to go through the trouble of scamming these people.” 

“It’s wrong to steal,” Oikawa protests. “This way I’m still working for the amount to pay for it properly.” 

“Oh, so you’re okay with scamming working class people but you draw the line at stealing from wealthy people?” 

Oikawa frowns. “Gambling is a bad thing! Frankly, I’m more deserving of these people’s money when they waste it on such pointless things.” 

“Hey,” Iwaizumi says, sharply, sitting forward. “You’re talking a lot of shit for someone who wants to buy a fancy clock for no reason other than ‘it’s intriguing.’ People don’t usually gamble because they want to, they gamble because they have an addiction to it, same as drinking. You’re an ass for thinking you deserve their money when you don’t even have to worry about paying for the food and shelter to stay alive.” 

Oikawa shuts his mouth and casts his eyes aside. He works his jaw, and for one brief moment, shame colors his features. It’s woefully short-lived. He straightens up, fixes his gaze on Iwaizumi, and says, “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly who I’d go to for a lecture.” 

Iwaizumi stands with a screech of his chair. He pushes his coins back to Oikawa’s side of the table. “Take the fucking money and buy your stupid clock. I don’t care.” 

He storms off before Oikawa can get a word in, keeping a lid on the boiling within. He puts as much space as he can between himself and Oikawa’s presence until he can no longer sense it. 

The days and weeks pass as he buries himself in work, lugging materials for the construction of a cathedral, Oikawa’s presence long gone but his memory fresh. Iwaizumi’s boss knows he’s a demon and summoned him for physical work, as Iwaizumi is much stronger than the average human and has much more endurance. Some humans keel over from overwork, so when Iwaizumi has the chance, he makes sure to take the load off of them, as he is significantly less vulnerable. 

Unlike his human coworkers, Iwaizumi is often forced to hang back and continue working into the night. The humans are released only under the worry of _too_ many of them dying from overwork. The same concern does not hold for him. 

A non-human presence comes into Iwaizumi’s perception towards the end of a grueling work day. Iwaizumi carries blocks of stone up and down stairs. Even for him, it’s difficult. The sun setting across the horizon, the presence draws closer, until a figure stands on the street below. 

As Iwaizumi works, repetitive movement after repetitive movement, the non-human presence comes closer. Footsteps echo from the stairwell. 

Iwaizumi’s boss, smoking, looks up from his ledger. He too remains behind quite frequently to observe Iwaizumi’s work. “Who’s there?” 

Oikawa steps into faint firelight, eyes flicking to Iwaizumi stood frozen with a block of stone. He addresses Iwaizumi’s boss. “Apologies for the intrusion. I just have some business to attend to with Iwaizumi.” 

“Well, you can wait. He’s working.” 

Oikawa smiles. “I’ve never seen someone summon a demon for hard labor before,” he notes. “You have an interesting way of thinking.”

Iwaizumi’s boss balks. “How did—Who—Who are—” 

“No matter.” Oikawa paces around the room, admiring the bare bones of the cathedral’s main hall, hands clasped behind his back. “I guess it wasn’t enough for you to abuse your human employees, you had to abuse your non-human ones too.” 

The boss scoffs, but there’s an edge of apprehension in his voice. “I get work done fast. And anyway, demons don’t feel pain or emotion, so I’m not really _hurting_ it.” 

Oikawa stops short at the word ‘it’ and faces the boss. His mouth curves into a sharp, pointed smile. “Are you so sure about that?”

The boss’s mouth hangs open, and no response comes from it. 

“Now, I think you’ll find that some people are very aware of what you’re doing here, and very displeased with it,” Oikawa says, continuing his slow parade around the room, voice reverberating against the high ceiling. “So displeased, I’d say, that your life might get much more unpleasant in the future. Or when you’re dead. Who’s to say.”

Terror in the boss’s eyes. “Please…I don’t know what you are, but—Have mercy…I can change—I’ll change—” 

“Hm.” Oikawa inspects his nails. “Perhaps if you had considered having mercy for those working for you, your fate could have been swayed…” 

The boss kneels down, pressing his forehead to the ground. “Please, I swear I will—I _swear_ —Just give me a second chance—” 

Oikawa looks down on the boss grovelling. “First, release Iwaizumi from your control.” 

“Yes, yes, of course—” The man scrabbles around and finds a lump of charcoal. He quickly draws out the symbol to release a demon on the floor, muttering words to himself. 

A weight lifts from Iwaizumi’s shoulders. Now obeying only to his own will, he drops the block of stone to the floor with a loud _thunk._

“Second,” Oikawa continues, “change how your workers are treated. If you do that satisfactorily, your future may have a different end.” 

“I will, I will. I promise.” 

“Good.” Brightly, Oikawa claps his hands together and turns to Iwaizumi. “Now, that business I came to talk to you about.” He links his arm with Iwaizumi’s and steers Iwaizumi away. 

Neither speaks until they are well out of earshot outside the in-progress cathedral. 

“What was all that?” Iwaizumi asks, pulling his arm from Oikawa. “Was that true? What you said to him.”

Oikawa tilts his head. “Of course not. You do know what bluffing is, don’t you?”

“Okay, well—”

“No, I have no clue what the future holds for that snivelling rat,” Oikawa says. “Though of course, based off of the things he’s done, I’m not sure he’s going to be able to make up for it in time for death.” 

“Well.” Iwaizumi struggles for words. “Thanks, I guess.”

Without replying, Oikawa searches through the bag at his side. He finds what he’s looking for and holds something out to Iwaizumi. 

Iwaizumi takes it. Coins. “What’s this?”

“The money you left in the tavern that one night,” Oikawa says. “I’ve been…Well. I’ve been trying to find the people I scammed and give them back their money, so. That includes you, I guess. I’m trying to raise the money to buy the clock through…a job.” 

“Huh.” 

“What do you mean, ‘huh’?” 

“Nothing.” Iwaizumi pockets the coins. “Thanks.” 

Oikawa eyes him, expression hard to read, but he quickly regains his bluster and says, “Well! I’ll be off, enjoy your freedom!” 

He disappears into the night, leaving Iwaizumi with nothing but his coins. 

A few days later, a strange urge strikes Iwaizumi. He creeps into a wealthy man’s estate in the disguise of a servant to find the latest model of clock. Memorizing its details, he steals away with an exact copy of it thanks to his powers of replication before anyone notices. From asking around, he’s able to find where Oikawa lives, and he leaves the clock copy outside Oikawa’s door in a crate. 

_To Oikawa_

Iwaizumi doesn’t write who it’s from.

  
  


**Italy, 1675 AD**

“Come here, come here, and listen about Master Mascitelli’s miraculous mixture!” 

The booming voice carries over the market square, reaching Oikawa with his shopping bags. He turns his eyes to the crowd centered around a middle aged man in a ludicrous, garish outfit stood on a platform. Torches light the platform.

“Gentlemen of a certain age, I am sure you are concerned with the loss of your hair, are you not?” says the man, whom Oikawa assumes to be Master Mascitelli. 

Mumbles of agreement from the audience. 

“You, sir!” Master Mascitelli points at a man with a severely receding hairline. “How does your wife enjoy that smooth, shiny skull of yours?” 

Titters from the others, and the man meekly responds, “She doesn’t, sir.” 

“I feared as much. Join me, man, and I will show you a new world!” 

Oikawa dawdles at the edges of the crowd, sensing a demon presence nearby. The man from the audience clambers up to stand beside Master Mascitelli, who pulls out a bottle with flourish. 

“See this, ladies and gentlemen?” Mascitelli says, brandishing the bottle. “This here is my secret formula that will change your lives!” He uncaps it and pours a small amount of the yellow liquid into the palm of his sand. “You only need three drops of my miraculous elixir, then, presto!” He applies the elixir to the man’s scalp, and right before their eyes, the man’s hair grows thick and full like he were twenty years younger. 

The audience gasps, applause trickling through. Oikawa doesn’t clap.

“You see, ladies and gentlemen?” Mascitelli gestures to the man, who touches his hair in shock. “It’s that simple!” 

Someone slides in beside Oikawa. Iwaizumi, dressed in muted peasant’s clothes, a ratty old satchel over his shoulder. 

“Oh, hello,” Oikawa says. “Long time no see.” He nods at the stage. “Know anything bout that?”

“Yeah, the actual elixir is worthless,” Iwaizumi says. “This guy summoned a demon to create the illusion of hair for his shows. He’s been scamming people out of money in a bunch of towns.” He eyes the man still in awe of his new hair. “That poor guy is going to go back to being bald in a few hours when the illusion wears off.” 

“And he keeps getting away with it?” Oikawa asks. 

“Look, I’m not about to kill one of my own like that,” Iwaizumi says. “They’re just following this one guy’s will.” 

With the crowd fawning over the man and his new hair, Oikawa sets his jaw. “Well, I think they should know the truth.” 

Jokingly, Iwaizumi says, “Oh, _now_ you care about scamming people?” 

Pushing aside Iwaizumi’s comment, Oikawa weaves through the crowd to the front and hops onto the platform. “Give me that,” he says, snatching the bottle from Mascitelli’s hand. 

“Pardon me,” Mascitelli says, frowning. “Sir, it doesn’t appear like my product would have much use for you. Is it for a friend, or…” 

Oikawa uncaps the bottle and takes an experimental sniff. An overwhelming waft of roses, but there’s a hint of something else, something familiar. Oikawa gulps down a mouthful. 

Mascitelli reaches out. “What are you—” 

Oikawa smacks his lips. “Just as I thought.” He raises the bottle out of Mascitelli’s reach and says, loudly, “This is just olive oil mixed with perfume! This is no elixir!” 

“And what do _you_ know?” Mascitelli retorts. “I spent years perfecting my recipe, and you are just a random person. What authority do you have?”

“I’m a chemist, but anyone with tastebuds can tell this is something any old hack could make.”

“You hear that?” Mascitelli says to the crowd. “He doesn’t believe! Even when we just witnessed a miracle moments before!” 

“That wasn’t—” Oikawa begins to say, but boos drown him out. At the back of the crowd, Iwaizumi looks amused. 

“He dares insult the name of Mascitelli! Well, he should have figured that if Mascitelli can give, Mascitelli can take away as well.” Mascitelli pulls out a flask from the pocket of his jacket and douses Oikawa’s head with the liquid inside. 

From the smell and the taste of the droplets dripping down Oikawa’s face, it’s nothing more than ordinary grape wine, but the crowd erupts in laughter. Oikawa touches his head. His scalp is bare, hair gone. He knows it’s an illusion, but his face burns with Mascitelli’s smug grin and the townspeople pointing fingers and laughing at him. Someone throws a chunk of bread at him, causing a cascade of bread chunks pelted at him. Amidst jeers, Oikawa throws the elixir to the ground and storms off the podium. 

Overly conscious of the illusion, he catches glimpses of himself in windows and puddles, sickened so much by the bare skin that he immediately rushes home to his flat. 

Oikawa enters his flat, dumping his shopping bags to the floor and not bothering to light the oil lamp. He stands, hands clenched and quaking, eyes roaming over the alchemical glasses and vials hoarding every inch of space. 

Charging forward, he swats an empty beaker off the table. It breaks into shards. He pants, snatching up a glass and hurling it at the wall. Glass tinkles as it hits the ground, chemicals staining the stone wall. 

He grabs another vial, but the flat door creaks. 

Ragged satchel on his shoulder, Iwaizumi stands in the doorway, brows pulled together. “Jeez, can you not make such a racket?” he grumbles, shutting the door behind him. “It’s just an illusion, dumbass. It’ll go away in a few hours.”

“It’s not that.” Heatedly, Oikawa says, “They humiliated me. They made me look like a fool.” 

Taking in the mess of the flat, Iwaizumi raises his eyebrows. “Well, you are a fool.” 

Oikawa’s mouth falls open, fingers curled tight around the vial. Iwaizumi steps over the beaker shards and stops in front of him. 

“Give me that,” he says, nodding at Oikawa’s hand. 

Oikawa blinks and looks down at the vial. He falters, breath slowing. Reluctantly, he places the vial in Iwaizumi’s outstretched hand. 

With a knowing smile, Iwaizumi places the vial on the table. “Someone worked hard to craft these, you know.” 

Iwaizumi waves a hand and mends the broken beaker and glass, chemicals cleaned from the wall and replaced in their appropriate glasses. He sets the mended containers on the table among the rest of the alchemical glasses. 

Iwaizumi shrugs off his satchel. “I have something for you.” 

Oikawa watches him rummage with curiosity, unsure what to expect, only to find a brass cylinder placed into his hands. 

“What on earth is this?” Oikawa wrinkles his nose, turning the cylinder around. 

“It’s a thing humans use to see things far away,” Iwaizumi explains. “Apparently it’s useful to for looking at the moon and stars.” 

Oikawa peeks through one end of the cylinder, the image within a muddy, unfocused view of his wall. “But I’m not a human. I can see the moon and stars just fine.” 

“Well, you like human inventions, right? Anyway, it might remind you to be grateful that you can see so well.”

Oikawa opens his mouth with a ready-made retort, but Iwaizumi lightly shoves him in the shoulder, turning away. 

“I’ll be back if you’re up to trouble again,” he threatens, lightly. He opens the door and leaves. 

Left to his dusky blue flat, reordered to what it was when he entered, Oikawa looks down at the new cylinder, turning it around in his hands to get a feel for it. He steps to the window, sitting with one thigh up on the white molding. The city is alight with firelight below, the stars and a bright full moon coloring the rooftops a crisp, icy blue. 

Aiming at the sky, Oikawa puts the cylinder to his eye.

  
  


**The Himalayas, 1834 AD**

Oikawa kneels, grabbing a handful of soil at his feet and letting it drip from his fingers. He stands, readjusting the bags of equipment strapped to him, and continues onward through the pine trees. His footsteps are careful. His eyes scour the forest floor.

His goal is a rare little orchid, _Paphiopedilum fairrieanum,_ which is said to grow tucked in the hills of the lower part of the Himalayas. There was quite a fuss in the orchid world at its discovery, and through the months Oikawa has trudged these hills, he has come across the hired orchid hunters of many familiar growers. His latest interest in orchid growing began not with the orchids, but the growers, the wealthy owners sending off lackeys to lie, cheat, steal, and kill for these tiny, odd looking little plants. At first, Oikawa couldn’t fathom why anyone would go to such lengths, but even he fell prey to the lure of the orchid. 

He has his own orchid nursery in Prague, which is kept with perfect conditions even when he’s not around. He never hires anyone to do the dirty work of searching for him—it’s not the owning of them he likes, it’s the thrill of the chase, the weeks and months spent wandering remote corners of the world. He doesn’t have the ability to instantly find orchids, and even if he had such a power, he would not use it. 

The past few days, however, something has been gnawing at him. He can sense a demon’s presence somewhere in these foothills, and he has a growing suspicion that the closer he gets to the demon, the closer he gets to the orchid. 

Oikawa walks up a hill. A nearby stream trickles. Across the floor, a branch cracks. 

Oikawa freezes. A form appears out of the trees—but it’s merely a human, a large, burly man with a thick beard streaked gray and a hardened brow. 

The man spots him, fumbling for the rifle at his side. 

Oikawa raises his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

The man does not move, the rifle’s barrel pointed directly at Oikawa’s chest. “You looking for the orchid?” 

“I’m just a simple traveler.” 

“Bullshit. Who do you work for?” 

“I work for me.” 

The man’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “How old are you?” 

“Is there an age restriction to be here that I’m unaware of?” 

“I’ve heard…There’s an orchid hunter who doesn’t age.” 

Oikawa plasters on a smile. “Superstition, my dear fellow,” he says, breezily. “Just the usual lurid folk tale to scare you silly.” 

The barrel of the rifle does not move. “Regardless.” The man’s finger drifts towards the trigger. “I’ve got a job to do. Sorry. It’s not personal.” 

A bang, and before Oikawa can think to move, the bullet strikes him in the chest. He does not feel the pain a human would upon being shot in the heart, only mild discomfort. He knows he should fall to the ground, feign death, but pride keeps him standing, wanting to watch the man’s reaction as his body pushes the bullet out. The bullet drops to the ground. 

The man’s jaw goes slack. Eyes darting between the bullet on the ground and Oikawa’s face, he steps back and recocks the rifle. 

“Don’t waste your bullets.” Oikawa drops his arms. “Well, I’ll be continuing on my way, if that’s all right with you. Best of luck to you. Hopefully, we won’t have to run into each other again.” 

He turns away, trudging up the gravelly hillside to the stream above. The water flows clear over large rocks. 

Footsteps thunder after him. The man grabs Oikawa from behind. “Devil,” he hisses. 

Fumbling. Oikawa rips himself free and pushes the man. The man teeters, trips over a rock, and falls into the shallow depth of the stream with a sickening _crack._

Stillness. The man’s eyes are open and glassy, red clouding the water near his head. 

Seconds pass. Breaths in, breaths out. Oikawa stares, frozen in place, unable to feel the cold water flowing around his ankles. 

Snapping himself out of it, he turns his back on the man, sloshing through thigh high water to reach the opposite bank. He wildly tromps around the forest, mind buzzing and ears unhearing, eyes going from tree to tree. For a moment he thinks he can sense two demon presences, but the second is too faint and quickly flits out of perception as the first grows stronger and stronger. 

With the sun unable to penetrate much through the dense blanket of trees and leaves, Oikawa does not know how much time passes. He comes to a stop at the crest of a hill, a small clearing sat within tall trees. The noises of the forest fade away. The demon’s energy is all around him, not at one specific point. In the middle of the clearing amongst some fallen branches sits an orchid, perfect, small, strange petals white with purple veins. 

Oikawa takes in the sight in shock, then quickly kneels before the orchid. He pulls out his small shovel from his bag and carefully digs it out, not wanting to damage the roots. Once the orchid is free, he shifts it to his bag, replanting it with new soil and tucking it out of sight. 

He stands. 

Something shifts underfoot. A thorny root snakes up from the ground, curling tight around Oikawa’s ankles. Attempting to step away and stumbling, Oikawa hacks at the roots with a knife from his bag. He cuts his ankles free, but more roots burst through the earth, undeterred, coiling around his legs once more and yanking him to the ground. He cuts, cuts. They return. 

He claws at the earth, trying to pull away, but the roots hold him in place. Something pricks his thigh, cutting through his trousers. Pain, throbbing and hot, radiates from his thigh. Oikawa goes limp, vision swirling, his body shaky and feverish in a way he’s never experienced. 

He lies there, weak and immobile, only vaguely sensing another presence in the clearing. The tightness around his legs lessens, but the pain remains. Something—someone—touches the point of pain near Oikawa’s knee. He yelps, writhing. 

Wetness, and slowly, the pain subsides, a mere shakiness remaining. Vision and head cleared, Oikawa looks up. Iwaizumi sits back, wiping his mouth. 

“What are—” Oikawa heaves. “What was that?”

“It’s a poison fatal to anything that isn’t a demon,” Iwaizumi answers. “I got it out for you.” 

Oikawa props himself up, craning his head to see the glaring red skin poking out from the rip in his trousers. Panic rises and tightens his throat. “Will…Will that go away?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Oikawa grits his teeth, pressing out a long breath. Finally, he says, “The other demon?” 

“Dead.”

A bird trills. 

“What are you doing here?” Oikawa asks. 

Iwaizumi sits back, arm draped over his bent knee. “Looking for that orchid everyone wants. Some guy summoned me to look for it.” 

“Why did you save me?” 

For a moment, Iwaizumi says nothing, and in that moment, Oikawa realizes that was the wrong thing to say. Iwaizumi’s expression sours. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Because—We’re both looking for that orchid.” 

“So? I don’t care about it. I’m not going to let you die over a damn flower.” 

“Well, maybe you should!”

Iwaizumi furrows his brow. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“You’re not supposed to be the merciful one. _I_ am. You should know your side by now.”

“What? There are no sides,” Iwaizumi says. “I’m just helping you, and—” 

“Well, I don’t need your help.” Oikawa lifts his chin, acid filling his mouth. He snarls, “ _Demon._ ” 

A muscle in Iwaizumi’s jaw tenses. He stands. “Fine. Don’t expect my help ever again.” 

“Fine!” Oikawa yells. His voice echoes through the trees, and he is alone once more. 

Oikawa sits up with some difficulty and swallows down the knot in his throat, body still weak from the other demon’s poison. He peers at the new mark on his thigh, the strange, spidery red mark. Disgust seizes him. 

When he’s finally able to stand, he checks his bag; the orchid inside was crushed under his weight in the tussle, delicate petals ripped and twisted, the stem broken. Oikawa dumps the destroyed flower to the ground. 

He leaves it there and sets off into the forest. 

  
  


**Tokyo, Present**

The clutter in Oikawa’s apartment grows. He has a broom resting along the wall of the kitchen, and he knows there are trash bags in the cupboard under the sink, yet he cannot make himself pick them up, instead single-mindedly continuing his crusade through facial masks and cleansers and adding to the piles. 

He realizes he hasn’t charged his phone in a while, the screen black when he thinks to check it, so he goes in search of his charger. He wades through his experiments, both past and present, moving objects along the walls in search of an outlet. He uncovers an ancient and defunct clock sat among some old scrolls and a thick layer of dust. He stops. Crouching down, he blows dust off the top and wipes the clock face clean. 

The first thing Iwaizumi ever gave to him. 

Oikawa takes the clock hand and rewinds it back, long unused springs clanking ominously. After several trips counterclockwise around the clock face, the hand breaks off. Oikawa straightens up, cupping the dusty clock hand in his palm.

In his reverie, his phone slips from his other hand, landing on an eight hundred year old dagger and instantly shattering. The screen falls out in shards, the back opening and exposing the battery and SIM card. 

Oikawa sighs, setting down the clock hand and picks up the remnants of his phone. He traces the outline of the cracks in the screen with a finger. His mind latches onto a new idea, and in a flash he’s researching smartphone repairs on his laptop. 

By three in the morning the next day, he’s finished repairing his cracked screen, though the cracks remain visible and his fingers can feel the grooves. But he’s fallen down a new rabbithole, and spends the rest of the night reading articles about smartphone design on his laptop, and when dawn comes he goes and buys ten different smartphone models to pull apart and examine. He doesn’t clean up the mess of his old facial masks and cleansers, instead pushing them out of the way to make room for his new experiments. 

Even the 17th century telescope collects dust where it sits. 

  
  


**New York City, 1925 AD**

The club is smoky. Lights bounce off the glittery outfits of the singers and performers on the small stage, leaving the patrons to sit in relative anonymity at dark tables and booths. Iwaizumi’s non-human eyes prove an asset in watching over the tables of people drinking and talking, unhampered by the dimness. 

Iwaizumi doesn’t particularly care for the security job, but he needs the money to pay for his closet-sized apartment, and he supposes there are worse jobs than one where he spends most of it standing and listening to jazz. 

Somewhere nearby is a non-human presence. Iwaizumi can only hope it’s someone else, but deep down he knows exactly who it is.

There’s a smattering of applause as the trio of tap-dancers bow and take their exit, a curvy young woman in a glitzy silver gown and a feather shawl replacing them. She begins her song, a slow, sultry tune about heartbreak and love meant to make every man in the room to feel like she is singing to him alone. 

Iwaizumi pays no attention to the singer. His eyes wander over the patrons sat upon red cushioned seats. His eyes stop on a middle aged man in a tux surreptitiously taking a flask out of his suit jacket and pouring something into the champagne flute before him. The man quickly hides the flask in his suit jacket. 

Dread washes over Iwaizumi and he’s reminded of the last time he didn’t catch someone in possession of alcohol in the club. Then, his manager threatened to fire him. Now, he waits until the song concludes to approach the table under the cover of applause. 

“Excuse me,” he says in a low voice as the oboist plays the beginning notes of the next song. “We don’t allow alcohol on the premises.” 

The man frowns up at him, hand curling tight around a white napkin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sir, I apologize, but if the police were to find alcohol in this building, it would be shut down. We only ask you to cooperate and not bring any alcohol in.”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.” 

Iwaizumi exhales slowly through his nose. “Sir, if you aren’t willing to cooperate, I’ll have to ask you to leave.” 

“Listen here,” the man growls, “I didn’t pay out the ass to get in here just for you to harass me—” 

“Is there a problem?” 

Iwaizumi turns. A figure—brown hair parted and slicked back, a moustache, a crisp tux. Oikawa. A flutter of nerves in Iwaizumi’s stomach. Oikawa meets Iwaizumi’s gaze for only a second, his eyes conveying a muddled message before focusing on the man. 

“No, there’s no problem,” the man says, taking a sip of his drink. 

“I see.” Oikawa inches closer, hands clasped behind his back. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re Mr. Henry Woolworth, correct?” 

The man lowers the champagne flute. “What—How do you know who I am?” 

“I’m acquainted with your wife, Mrs. Ethel Woolworth. I’m sure she’d be interested to hear how you’ve been going to nightclubs with significantly younger women.” Oikawa glances to the dark haired young woman sitting beside the man. She lowers her eyes to her lap.

Woolworth’s face grows ashen. He sits petrified for several beats of the rag song then gulps down the last of his drink. The song ends and the club erupts in applause. Woolworth mutters to the young woman, “Let’s get out of here.” 

They leave. A rousing new song begins. Iwaizumi turns to reclaim to his post. 

“Uh! Wait—” 

Iwaizumi looks back. The conniving expression has vanished from Oikawa’s face, eyes entreating. 

“I want to talk to you,” he says, voice barely audible over the brass and piano. “Please.” 

Iwaizumi readjusts the cuffs of his jacket. He mulls it over, memories of their last meeting in the Himalayas sharp. He knows he should tell him to leave, never return, but instead he says, “The club closes at four,” and turns away. 

The rest of his shift passes without much incident. He loses track of Oikawa in the dark, leaving him to dwell on Oikawa with the non-human presence remaining nearby. At four, he escorts stragglers out and assists the other employees in cleaning up. It’s about five in the morning by the time he ascends the steps back up to the street. The air is chilly. Iwaizumi’s lucky he can control the internal temperature of his body. 

“It’s almost five,” says a voice. 

Iwaizumi exhales a cloudy breath and turns his head, finding Oikawa leaning against the brick of the building next door beside a trashcan. Oikawa strikes a match and lights a cigarette, the orange glow illuminating his face in the dark. 

“I said the club closes at four, not that I’d be out of there by four,” Iwaizumi says. 

“Hm.” Oikawa shakes the match to extinguish it and tosses it into the trashcan. He takes a couple of drags, smoke vanishing into the cold air. 

Iwaizumi crosses his arms. “So?” 

Oikawa finishes his cigarette and drops it to the ground, putting it out with his shiny dress shoe. “Mind if we walk?” 

“To where?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“…Fine.”

Oikawa steps out onto the street, and Iwaizumi follows, keeping his distance. Cars are sparse at this time, but colorful lights continue to glow in the dark. The city that never sleeps, indeed.

Hands in his pockets, Oikawa kicks a can. “So. How goes working security?” 

“Shitty. I’m supposed to be there to intimidate, but all I end up doing is customer service.” 

“That’s particularly difficult for yo—” Oikawa stops himself and instead says, “That sounds unpleasant.” 

Iwaizumi eyes him, noticing the shift away from a typically snarky comment. “It is.” 

Oikawa clears his throat and offers, “Well, it’s been a while. I’ve been doing this and that.” 

A car approaches, light from car headlights hitting their backs, and with a honk from a taxi driver, they move out of the road. 

“Anyway, I…” Red light from a nightclub sign reflects in Oikawa’s eyes. The taxi car rumbles past. “I wanted to thank you. For saving my life in the Himalayas. I didn’t thank you then, but I should have, so I’m doing it now.” He exhales and looks Iwaizumi in the eye. “And I’m sorry for what I said to you. That was no way to treat a friend.” 

“A friend?” 

“Uh—Well—” Oikawa nervously smoothes his already slicked hair. “I mean, I consider you my friend, but if you don’t, then—” 

“All right,” Iwaizumi says to break Oikawa’s rambling. “I guess I, uh…I consider you a friend too. Even when you piss me off.” 

“Oh. Uh—” Oikawa drops his hand. He seems genuinely surprised. “Well, I…I just wanted to tell you that what I said had nothing to do with you. It was all me. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking these past few years, and, well…I’ve been trying to do better.” 

“I can see that’s not the only thing you’ve been up to,” Iwaizumi says. 

“Oh, this?” Oikawa touches his mustache. “I think it makes me look distinguished and erudite.” 

“It doesn’t.” 

“Would it _kill_ you to say one nice thing about me? Just one?” 

“Yeah.” Iwaizumi smiles, crookedly. “I’d instantly combust.” 

Oikawa rolls his eyes, and they slow, coming to a railing overlooking the Hudson river. They stand. Dancing ripples reflect the lights of the buildings across the water. 

Neither speaks for a while. The sky lightens.

“You know,” Iwaizumi says, cutting the silence. He leans onto the railing with folded arms. “I, uh. I don’t know if this is true for your kind, but all demons have ‘true’ names, names different from the names we’re called. Anyone who knows our true names can permanently kill us.”

Oikawa cocks his head. “It is a thing for my kind as well.”

Iwaizumi nods. He waits one, two, three beats of his pulse and softly says, “Mine’s Hajime.” 

The corner of Oikawa’s mouth twitches, as if he’s trying not to smile. “Tooru. That’s mine.” 

Something passes, shifts into place. For a breath, neither moves, studying the other in the dim light. 

Iwaizumi turns to face the water, and beside him, Oikawa does the same. They stand there until the sun rises, the sky blooming into a strange lavender.

  
  


**Tokyo, Present**

Iwaizumi wipes down the bar in a brief lull of customers. He tosses aside a rag and straightens up to see two familiar faces waiting in line. 

“Hey, dude,” says Matsukawa. 

Hanamaki flicks a peace sign in greeting. 

“Hey.” Iwaizumi leans over the bar to hear them better over the cacophony of Saturday night drinkers. “Can I get something for you guys?” 

“Nama beer,” Matsukawa says. 

“Same,” Hanamaki says. 

“Got it.” Iwaizumi plucks up two clean glasses and shuffles over to fill them. 

“How’s life?” asks Hanamaki. 

One glass halfway full of sparkling amber beer, Iwaizumi keeps his eyes focused on it so it doesn’t overflow. “Ah, you know. Busy.” He places the glass on the bar once it’s filled, and Hanamaki swipes it up. 

“How’s your angel pal doing?” 

“Oikawa? Fine, probably.” Iwaizumi fills the other glass and places it before Matsukawa. “I haven’t seen him in a few months.” 

“Really?” Matsukawa asks. 

“Well, yeah. When you’re my age, a month isn’t very long at all. He and I have gone hundreds of years without running into each other.” 

“Damn,” Hanamaki says. “That’s too much for my brain to handle.” 

Iwaizumi laughs. 

“Must be nice to have a friend like that, though,” Matsukawa says. 

“A friend like what?” 

“Well, you never mention any other demons you’re friends with, and our lives are so short compared to yours.” Matsukawa smiles, wryly. “Doubt you’ll want to be friends with us when we’re old and crotchety.” 

Iwaizumi frowns. “It’s not like that.” 

“Well, at least with Oikawa you have a friend your own age, you know?” 

“…Yeah.” 

A pause. Hanamaki goes to dig out his wallet, but Iwaizumi shakes his head. 

“On the house,” he says, with a wink.

Hanamaki raises the beer in thanks, and the pair of them go find seats, leaving Iwaizumi to the next stream of customers. 

The two of them leave an hour or so later, faces flushed, waving farewell to Iwaizumi, and his shift wears on. Someone accidentally knocks a couple of glasses to the floor, so he spends some time mopping glass shards and alcohol. They close at four and clean up, Iwaizumi’s coworker yawning every two minutes. Iwaizumi feels wide awake. 

The sky is beginning to shift from indigo to gray when Iwaizumi finally locks up and leaves. He checks his phone. 5:03. If anyone is up right now, it’s Oikawa. 

Iwaizumi boards the train, picks up some sheets of paper from his own apartment, and heads to Oikawa’s apartment before he can second-guess himself. But face-to-face with door 5011, folded papers wedged in the pocket of his jacket, he thinks, _What the hell am I doing?_ He ignores the thought and knocks, ignoring the doorbell.

No answer. Iwaizumi's pulse thumps loudly. Then—footsteps.

Oikawa cracks open the door. He blinks, processing Iwaizumi before him, and his brows draw together. “What are you doing here?” 

“Uh. Mind if I come in?” 

Oikawa twists his lips as he thinks it over, then opens the door wider. 

The apartment is significantly more chaotic than the last time Iwaizumi was here. What appear to be electrical parts litter the floor, organized into sections, the facemasks and cleansers pushed to the sides to make room. Various tools Iwaizumi doesn’t know the function of rest upon the table. 

Oikawa stands, arms folded. He seems tired and unfocused, expression blank. He says nothing.

“Well,” Iwaizumi says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just checking in about the facemasks. You haven’t pestered me in a while for my data, so I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.” He takes out the folded sheets of paper from his pocket and offers them to Oikawa. “Here’s some of the data I collected, if you need it.” 

Hesitating a second, Oikawa takes the papers. He unfolds them and looks over them, expression a little less stony. The stoniness returns, however, when he folds the papers back up and crosses his arms again. “I’m working on something else now.” 

“I can see that.” 

Oikawa sullenly refuses to lower his eyes, staring Iwaizumi down. For once, Iwaizumi feels the latent power underneath all that frivolity. 

“Why are you _really_ here?” Oikawa asks. “I know you didn’t come here to talk about facemasks.” 

Iwaizumi looks down, scuffing his shoe on the floor. “Look, Oikawa…I…” He lifts his head. “ _Of course_ I love you. You must know I do.” 

Oikawa remains still. “But?” 

“But…I don’t know. I guess I’ve always felt like it was wrong of me to. Like I would never deserve you.” 

Oikawa huffs, unfolding his arms. “You wouldn’t deserve me? Like I haven’t spent the past few hundred years trying to be worthy of you.” 

“But we’re inherently different, you’re supposed to—” 

“You’re such an oblivious _idiot,_ ” Oikawa says, voice rising. “I’m disgraced! I was cast out from the other angels thousands of years ago!” 

“You’re—What?” 

“I was too selfish and ambitious to make a good angel, apparently, so I was stripped of my power and forced to live among the humans for eternity as my punishment. You know, since I’m so much like those sinful, selfish humans. I lost my connection to the upperworld. Even when you’re on earth, you still have a connection to the underworld, right? Well, I don’t. The sky is just the sky.” 

Iwaizumi flounders, mouth open. “I didn’t—I didn’t realize—” 

“Why’d you think you never saw me use any powers? Or that you never came across anyone like me?” 

“I don’t _know,_ ” Iwaizumi snaps. “I just assumed the other angels were off doing actually important things, not like you and all your weird hobbies and experiments.”

“Well,” Oikawa says, ruefully, “you weren’t wrong.” 

They fall silent for a prolonged stretch of time, only the droplets from the leaky faucet sounding. 

“Look,” Oikawa says. “I antagonized you so much in those early days because I wanted to prove myself, prove how different I was from you and humans, but…I was wrong. It’s _you_ who taught me I only did good to feed my ego, not for the sake of doing good itself. 

“My point is.” Oikawa’s voice is firm, no hint of jest. “I don’t really believe in inherent difference. I’ve seen a lot over the years, and there have been many humans worse than you. And many better ones.” He smiles, a smidgen of humor returning. “At the very least, you’re no worse than I am.” 

“Ah, well,” Iwaizumi says, flailing for words. “At least I can find comfort in knowing I’m much better than you.” 

Instead of sending a zinger back, Oikawa laughs. 

“You know,” Iwaizumi says, more seriously, “it’s not like being a human is a bad thing, either. Being selfish and ambitious can be a good thing in the right circumstances. I actually think humans can be pretty incredible, sometimes.” 

Oikawa nods. Quietly, he says, “Secretly, I think I’ve always been envious of them. They’re so deeply connected to one another, and I didn’t have anyone. Except you.” 

A long pause. 

Iwaizumi steps forward, taking the folded papers of data from Oikawa’s hand and letting the pages flutter to the ground. He touches Oikawa’s cheek, and Oikawa blinks in surprise, wide eyes roaming over Iwaizumi’s face. Iwaizumi distractedly notes how Oikawa’s hair matches the warmth of his brown eyes. He leans in. 

Oikawa returns the kiss, pressing a hand to Iwaizumi’s side. Iwaizumi sinks his fingers into Oikawa’s hair, feeling the waves and the thickness. As the kiss deepens, Oikawa pulls Iwaizumi closer in by the hip, their bodies flush to each other. 

Iwaizumi pulls back for a breath and drops his hands to Oikawa’s shoulders. His mouth tingles. Oikawa’s face is flushed, lips more colored than before. 

“Do you,” Iwaizumi begins to ask, breathlessly. “I mean, should we move to your room, or—?” 

“Ah,” Oikawa says. “I, uh, don’t have a bed.” 

“What? You’re kidding me.” 

“ _Well!_ I don’t need sleep like a human, so why would I have one?” 

Iwaizumi exhales tiredly and fondly brushes back a lock of hair away from Oikawa’s face. “Fine. I guess we’ll manage.” 

He kisses Oikawa again, this time with more intensity, making Oikawa take a step back. He continues advancing, pushing Oikawa back until Oikawa is pressed up against the solitary table. Iwaizumi places either hand on the table, caging Oikawa’s hips in. His kisses shift down to Oikawa’s jawline and neck, Oikawa tilting his head back with a small sigh. 

“Hajime,” Oikawa breathes, hand on Iwaizumi’s chest. 

Pausing, Iwaizumi reaches around to push the electrical pieces cluttering the table to the floor and make space. He hikes Oikawa up onto the table, Oikawa’s thighs on either side of his hips. He looks dubiously at the table. “This thing better be sturdy.” 

“How dare you. I’ll have you know I built this table myself.” 

“You did?” 

“Yeah, I went through a woodworking phase a long time ago. This is the only piece I kept.” Oikawa raises his eyebrows. “You know, I’ve actually seen some of Jesus of Nazareth’s carpentry, and I have to say…Jesus wasn’t a very good carpenter.” 

“Stop talking,” Iwaizumi says, kissing Oikawa. 

Oikawa smiles against Iwaizumi’s lips and wraps his arms around the back of Iwaizumi’s neck. 

They move carefully, slowly at first, Oikawa’s fingers sneaking under the hem of Iwaizumi’s t-shirt and Iwaizumi’s mouth marking up Oikawa’s neck. The intensity and need grows, both impatiently and haphazardly stripping down. Iwaizumi stills, hand running along the pale skin of Oikawa’s thigh. He pauses at the mottled scar above Oikawa’s knee from the other demon’s poison in the Himalayas. Oikawa notices, a more complicated expression passing over his face, but he nods. Iwaizumi’s fingers lightly graze over the scar. 

The pace picks up again, Iwaizumi pressing Oikawa back into the table, little more said other than each other’s names and the occasional expletive. With a gasp, Iwaizumi comes first, and he finishes Oikawa off, Oikawa’s fingernails digging into Iwaizumi’s back. 

Heavy breaths slowing, they both remain still in the lingering warmth, foreheads pressed together. Oikawa slides off the table and flops flat on the floor with a sharp exhale, eyes shut. Iwaizumi lies beside him, the linoleum floor cool against his heated skin. Clutter surrounds him.

Iwaizumi turns his head to Oikawa. “Tooru,” he says, stroking Oikawa’s cheek. “I hate your apartment.” 

Oikawa lets out a breathy laugh, taking Iwaizumi’s hand and lacing their fingers. He presses a kiss to Iwaizumi’s knuckles. 

Iwaizumi lets his gaze roll back up to the ceiling. He shuts his eyes. 

  
  


**Tokyo, Future**

“Ugh,” Oikawa groans, lugging what feels like the fortieth garbage bag to the disposal site for his apartment. He’s picked up a sweat with this mid-July heat, so once he tosses the bag of combustibles into their proper place, he steps back and wipes his forehead. 

He reenters the building, relieved at the breath of air conditioning, and heads for the stairs. The elevator picked the perfect time to have electrical issues, as it’s been closed for the entire time Oikawa’s been cleaning out his apartment, making him walk up and down all five stories. Technically, he is capable of maintaining a more comfortable internal body temperature, but he thought he’d try out leaving himself to the whims of the atmosphere around him like a human, just to see. 

His apartment is still fairly messy at this point, plenty of old chotchkes that lost their usefulness hundreds of years ago, but at least he doesn’t have to create a pathway through the mess for ease of travel between rooms anymore. Partially at the behest of Iwaizumi (who lives in an apartment so empty and clean Oikawa complains it has no personality) and partially at his own desire, Oikawa began a deep clean of his apartment after he lost interest in his smartphone project and found himself again with nothing to do. Currently, he’s put his experiments on pause, unsure what he’ll turn to in the future. For now, he has lots of cleaning to do. 

More bags of trash await him, but he feels like he needs a break, instead filling up a glass of water at the sink and watering the one orchid he has left. He sets the empty glass down and looks to the window, his 17th century telescope still sat sentinel. He digs out polish and a rag and carefully wipes it down. It’s ancient and terribly out of date, and he could probably replace it with an actually good telescope, but he doesn’t. 

He gingerly replaces the telescope back to its place at the window and peers outside. Hanging over skyscrapers, the sun is bright amongst a vast expanse of blue.

**Author's Note:**

> mood bops: [friends in low places - jr jr,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Ijvbiu_Rt8) [(don't) wannabe - kristin kontrol,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ispry9ERCoU) [love will save your soul - grouplove](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0aHUZx2ROo)
> 
> i know the subtext is there, but i want to make it absolutely clear: yes, the fact that iwaizumi can transform into a massive dog DOES make oikawa a monster fucker. that being said, angels often have horrifying forms and while i didn’t write oikawa with another form, please assume he also could transform into a terrifying monster when he still had his powers. so it’s more of a monster/monster relationship. thank you for your time
> 
> also you might have noticed that i make no reference to genitalia in the sex scene. i am just one feeble mortal, you think i know what angel/demon genitalia looks like? it’s up to your interpretation. let your imagination run free. trans/intersex rights
> 
> i'm very blasphemous and homosexual on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bronii_chan) if thou wouldst like to live deliciously


End file.
